


A Mystrade ABC

by a_secret_scribbler



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Rutting, adorable to zealous, going at it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 01:18:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5144960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_secret_scribbler/pseuds/a_secret_scribbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Mystrade alphabet, with a little bit of Johnlock thrown in for good measure...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mystrade ABC

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't how I was taught the alphabet at school...honest...

*

**A is for Adorable**

Waitrose was hellish. To be fair it was a Saturday morning and Greg had a yen for toast with honey, and the bread they had at home had green bits growing on it. So when Greg had suggested a walk down to the supermarket before breakfast it hadn’t seemed like a bad idea. Now they were stuck in a queue behind a woman who had more than the requisite ten items in her basket and was paying with Vietnamese Dong, the toddler sitting in the trolley behind them had wiped his snotty little face on the back of Mycroft’s jacket and was now howling loudly because Mycroft had barked at him. Greg turned around a smiled sympathetically at the mother who scowled back at him. Mycroft was sulking and had dumped their shopping, basket, and all, on the conveyor belt. Greg fumbled in his pockets and realized that he had left his wallet at home, his partner sighed heavily and slapped a twenty pound note into his hand whilst refusing to acknowledge the shop assistant or help pack their meager items.

As Greg struggled to peel the carrier bag apart, he watched Mycroft stalk off towards the door. The shop assistant eventually took pity and helped him open the stubborn bag before she checked out his shopping. “Lovers tiff?” she asked nodding in the general direction of the exit. Greg shrugged and was just about to answer when a large bunch of sunflowers was suddenly thrust into his hands and Mycroft said “Here Gregory, you like these, they remind you of family holidays in France. We’ll take these as well.” Then he turned and walked over to the newspapers and pretended to be reading the headlines whilst Greg finished with the shopping. “Oh, bless him. He’s just adorable,” the woman at the till said with a smile on her face, before wrapping some paper around the thick stalks and handing them back to Greg. The man picked up his bag and the flowers, slipped the change into the charity box at the end of the checkout and, with a wink, said “You don’t know the half of it…” before catching up with Mycroft and slipping an arm around his waist, “Thanks for the flowers Myc’.” He felt an arm slip around his shoulder and a brief touch of lips to his hair, “You’re welcome my love.”

*

**B is for Bootylicious**

Mycroft had put a few pounds on whilst they were on holiday, Italy, with all its pasta and gelato, will do that to a man who’s weight tends to fluctuate at the best of times. Mycroft was standing in just his boxers, bending over his yet unpacked suitcase, searching for his washbag, when Greg walked out of the en-suite and gave a wolf whistle. Startled, Mycroft froze in this rather compromising position and felt Greg sidle up behind him and grind his growing erection into his lovers’ plush, silk covered buttocks. Leaning over him, Greg whispered into his ear “God Myc’, you’re so bootylicious.” before pulling him over to the bed and letting Mycroft know exactly how well he could handle this…

*

**C is for Charming**

Three hours into the Mayors annual charity ball, Mycroft was pinned against a wall by a small group of middle aged divorced women. He had made the mistake of letting slip that he had no girlfriend or wife and there was a mad scramble to engage him as a dance partner. Greg watched him from across the room with a smirk on his face, he was here in an official capacity, accompanying the Chief, and had barely managed to speak two words to his beloved all evening. Mycroft caught his eye and sent him a panicked “Help me!” through the crowd. Putting down his drink, he leant in to the Chief and whispered “Can you spare me for ten minutes, Myc’ is getting himself into deep shit, I need to rescue him.” The Chief glanced over and let out a low laugh, “You’d better get in there quickly before he gets ripped to pieces.”

Greg strode across the dance floor to his partners side, and, pushing through the now considerable crowd of women clamouring for Mycroft’s attention, grabbed him by the hand. “Excuse me ladies, I’m afraid he’s taken. Come on love, you promised me a blow job four hours ago, and I’m ready to collect.” With a sneaky slap on his arse he steered the red faced man across the room towards the cloakroom. “Oh Charming Gregory. Just. Charming.” Mycroft managed before his mouth was engaged in a completely different occupation.

*****

**D is for Dunce**

Mycroft may be the clever one in the partnership, but there are some things he knows bugger all about. Sport, he doesn’t know a gully from a googly. Neither is he a film aficionado, so, one evening when he came home late after a soirée at Downing Street and mentioned that he had been sitting next to a very handsome man called Daniel Craig who was “something in the film industry”, Greg hit him over the head with a rolled up copy of Private Eye and shouted “James Bond Myc’! James. Fucking. Bond! You dunce!”

*

**E is for Elegant**

Mycroft has a plethora of fine fabrics to encase his body. He relishes soft cashmeres and silks, well washed and starched cottons. He only succumbs to synthetic materials when he runs to keep fit. Greg’s favourite though, the thing he loves to see Mycroft wearing, is a full length, jade green, silk kimono that Mycroft was gifted by some Japanese business men after showing them around London one afternoon and introducing them to the delights of a well-earned afternoon tea in Claridge’s. The back of the garment is adorned with two large cranes, their necks entwined. Mycroft wears the kimono very rarely, because the heavy silk is hellishly difficult to rid of stains, even though he has a very discrete dry cleaning service, but when Greg begs him to put it on, he usually gives in because Greg always says he looks so elegant dressed like a “fucking geisha girl.” It usually doesn’t stay on very long…

*

**F is for Floozy**

Greg texted him at around midnight.

_Myc. Come and fetch me please hon’. Gx_

Mycroft sighed and instead of calling for one of his drivers, he slipped on his shoes and jacket and set off to do the deed himself. The bar where Greg’s colleague had chosen to hold his leaving do showed all the signs of a night well spent, (barely) upstanding police officers were spilling out of the front entrance and lining the pavement searching for a cab. He spotted one or two disappearing up alleyways for indiscrete assignations. Gregory was nowhere to be seen so Mycroft parked the car, steeled himself and went inside. The room was still fairly crowded, he searched the area around the bar but couldn’t see any signs of the familiar silver hair.

Over to one side was a small raised stage, there was a crowd around it shouting and encouraging someone who was about to treat everyone to a drunken bout of karaoke, it came as no surprise to Mycroft that the man standing in the spotlight was Greg. In their youth, the Lestrade brothers had started a band, with a couple of friends, in their dad’s garage, Greg on lead vocals and guitar, Philippe on drums. They had gigged around the South East and had a small, but loyal group of fans. Even now, Greg had a good singing voice, and, after a few beers, didn’t take much persuading to grab a guitar and sing a few cover versions. Here, however, the guitar was absent and he was relying on a backing track. Mycroft stood back and watched with some amusement as Greg’s choice started playing, a slow trumpet solo, Greg shucked off his jacket and began to loosen his tie, pulling it off and throwing it into the audience with a cheeky smile.

Suddenly his eyes locked on Mycroft and the words “I’m mad about the boy…” slipped seductively from his lips, Mycroft took a sharp intake of breath as Greg pointed towards him and crooked his finger, beckoning him closer as he sang. He found himself drawn towards the small stage like a moth to a flame and watched Greg croon the words as he slowly undid the top two buttons of his shirt. It was a very public display of seduction, and although his friends who were gathered around, knew that they were a couple, they had never been so open about their relationship before. Mycroft found himself entranced by the performance that was strictly for him and, as the song drew to its close, he watched as Greg stepped off the stage and sidled up to him, a big grin on his face, reaching up on tiptoe he slid his arms around Mycroft’s neck and whispered into his ear “You come to take me home then Sexy?” Mycroft shivered and felt his arousal pooling in his groin. “Yes, let’s go. No, leave your jacket, we need to go right now.” He said grabbing the other man’s hand and dragging him towards the exit. They didn’t quite make it to the car, Greg was pushed against the wall of a nearby alley as Mycroft growled “You’re nothing but a cock tease, you little floozy…” and, well let’s just say it’s a good job that there weren’t any (sober) officers of the law around or they’d both have been up on public indecency charges.

*

**G is for Groupie**

When Greg produced two tickets to see Vittorio Grigòlo at the Metropolitan Opera House during their visit to New York, Mycroft’s feet literally left the floor as he jumped for joy and clapped his hands. The production of La Bohėme was sublime, even Greg, a self-proclaimed philistine, wiped away a few tears as Mimi bit the dust. What surprised him most though was Mycroft’s pleading insistence that they wait at the stage door for Grigòlo to leave after the performance, and how the Iceman almost melted when the tenor took the time to sign Mycroft’s program and exchange a few words with him. As the singer was driven away in a waiting car, Greg felt Mycroft lean heavily on his shoulder, he turned to look at his partner and saw the look of adoration plastered all over his face. “Why. Mycroft Holmes. You’re an opera groupie! Who knew?” Mycroft quickly reorganized his face into his usual public persona of blank indifference, “Don’t be ridiculous Gregory, I am no such thing…”

*

**H is for Horny**

Greg lay in bed and watched as Mycroft dressed for the funeral of an old work colleague. “How did you know him again Myc’?” he asked stretching and propping himself up on a pile of pillows. Mycroft paused as he fastened his cufflinks, “Geoffrey recruited me from Cambridge. He was my mentor and a dear friend when I was a young and inexperienced newbie. The latter years of his life were spent in a nursing home, he suffered the ravages of Alzheimer’s, such a terrible thing to inflict a man who once had the sharpest brain in England. In a way his death is a blessing, He has no living relative’s and he has recognized none of his friends for the last four years. He had pneumonia in the end, death took him quickly and painlessly.” Greg scooted over to the edge of the bed and reached out his hand, “Come here love, let me give you a hug. I’m sorry you’ve lost a friend.” “I lost him years ago when he began to forget who I was.” Mycroft said blinking and fiddling with his shirt cuffs, he perched on the edge of their bed and Greg wrapped his arms around his waist and placed a gentle kiss onto the back of his neck.

The funeral was a short, non-religious affair. Mycroft spent a quiet couple of hours in a country pub afterwards with some old work colleagues, mostly now retired, they exchanged stories about their old friend and shortly, when Mycroft made his excuses and slipped away into a large black car, to be driven back to London, he instructed the driver to stop off NSY. He texted his husband and a few minutes later a flustered Greg appeared next to the car. Mycroft opened the car door and pulled him inside, crowding into him and crushing their lips together. There was a frantic tearing open of buttons and zips and Greg thanked God for tinted windows and discrete drivers as Mycroft rutted against him and swiftly brought them both to an earth shattering climax. They collapsed back onto the leather seat and struggled to catch their breath.

Mycroft spoke first. “I apologise Gregory, I don’t know what came over me. I just needed you urgently.” Greg smiled broadly, “its ok Myc’. Funerals have that effect on everyone. It’s something to do with needing to feel alive I suppose. It’s a well-known fact that funerals make you horny.” Mycroft tucked himself away into his trousers and gave a huff of agreement, “Yes. Well. I’m sure Geoffrey would have approved. He always enjoyed a tryst in the afternoon after a boozy lunch. I’ll see you after work…and thank you…” Greg tucked his shirt back into his trousers and zipped up his flies, as he stepped out the car he grinned “I think we should thank Geoffrey Myc’ don’t you?” then strolled off towards his office whistling the funeral march.

*

**I is for Itty-bitty**

When Mycroft first spent the night at Greg’s bachelor pad, he was dismayed to find a drawer containing 6 pairs of the saddest grey M&S baggy pants he had ever seen. Greg owned precisely one decent pair of underwear, tight white D&G’s. The rest were shockers. He made it his mission to fill Greg’s underwear drawer with items befitting his rather spectacular arse. His favorites being an itty-bitty black Italian pair that leave very little to the imagination, but don’t stay on long enough for him to care…

*

**J is for Juvenile**

Mycroft is lying naked and sated on their bed, he wasn’t one for exhibitionism, and it had taken months for him to feel comfortable in just his skin with Greg. Months of gentle kisses to his hated freckles, months of reassurances that “no, it isn’t unhygienic, and yes I do like doing that…” Months of soft caresses and teasing touches. Months of “Eat something Myc’, you’re gorgeous, you don’t need to diet…please…for me?” Now, as he gazes up at his lover, at his beautiful lover, he finds that he not only enjoys the adoration of this good man, he craves it. Greg grins as he disposes of the knotted condom in the general direction of the bedroom bin, “Christ Myc’ it just gets better every time, I can’t believe at my age I’m having the best sex of my life. I love you.” A huge smile cracks Mycroft’s face, he watches as Greg leans over and places a soft kiss on his midriff, he freezes, and tries to resist sucking in his slightly rounded belly, feeling Greg smile against his skin and then suddenly…

“Rrrrrrrrrrraaaaaasssssppppppppppppp!!!!”

Greg presses his lips to his lover’s tummy and blows. Hard. The rude noise echoing around their bedroom. Mycroft sits up immediately and pushes Greg away sharply. His lover rolls onto his back and howls laughing as Mycroft pulls himself to his full height and starts towards the bathroom. “How Juvenile Gregory…” he mutters as he stalks off leaving his still laughing husband sprawled on their bed. A few minutes later Greg hears the shower start up and he follows Mycroft into their en-suite, joining him under the water. Slipping his arms around his husbands waist he pulls him in close and whispers “If I was really a juvenile my love, I’d be up for another round right now just watching you standing here all wet and sudsy…as it is you’ll probably have to wait till this afternoon before I can go again…you’d better get Anthea to clear your diary for an hour, we wouldn’t want to upset the Prime Minister would we?” He slips his fingers between Mycroft’s thighs and caresses the scented soap into the soft skin and feels his lover shudder in his arms.

*

**K is for Kinks**

Mycroft was a rather inexperienced lover when he and Greg had finally, finally, got past the occasional dinner date and had fallen hungrily into bed. He’d had lovers before of course, short term affairs, one night stands, the occasional drunken fumble in the corridors of power, but never this, never an all-encompassing hunger for one person that seemed to deepen with every passing week. His body craved Greg’s touch, just a look across the dinner table would cause his pulse to race and his cock to thicken in his pants. It was all at once exhilarating and horrifying, the power that one person could have over another. Greg was a very considerate lover, their first encounter had been perfect, he had carefully, tenderly, and unhurriedly broken down all his barriers and when Greg had finally entered him, he was already teetering on the edge of orgasm. He had fallen over the edge clutching at his lovers back and crying out wordlessly, drawing Greg’s orgasm out of him with the sweet rhythmical pulsing of his tight passage around his cock.

Since then they had made love countless times, sometimes it was a hurried coupling, neither of them capable of waiting for clothes to be shed, sometimes against a wall, or a door, over a desk. Sometimes slow and languorous, feasting on each other, delighting in the luxury of time, teasing each other and relishing the prolonged orgasms they draw from each other’s body. Mycroft was aware that Greg was the more experienced lover, and he wondered sometimes if he was adventurous enough for his partner. With this in mind one day, he spent a leisurely afternoon browsing a website that specialized in the more adventurous aspects of sexual behavior. Some he dismissed immediately, he had no desire to explore bodily fluids, other than the ones they were already exchanging. Nor did he wish to be beaten with medieval implements or dressed in a nappy. However, one area that did excite him was the thought of wearing clothes that one would usually associate with the opposite sex, namely a rather fetching pale green silk corset and stockings. The thought of wearing these items under his three piece suit without anyone else knowing caused a shiver of arousal to ripple down his spine and settle in his groin. Without a thought for the cost of said items he placed an order and arranged for the discretely wrapped parcel to be delivered to his home the following day.

Greg had already left for work when the package arrived, so it required no secrecy, just a hurried signature left him standing alone in his hallway clutching a slim black box. Racing to his bedroom, his pulse kicked up a notch as he lifted the lid and peeled back the pale grey tissue to reveal the beautifully embroidered silk corset. Lifting it out of the box, he pressed it against his naked body, walking over to the full length mirror and admiring the soft green against his pale skin. Soft lace trimmed the small cups which would cover his non-existent breasts, it also lay in ruffles above the lower back, to frame the buttocks. Cream ribbon ran crisscrossed down the back, allowing the cinching in of his waist and four slim suspenders hung from the bottom of the garment to allow the fixing of stockings. The fine denier cream stockings he had ordered were tempting him from the box, but he knew that to show them, and his legs, to their best advantage, he would need to spend some time removing the hair from his legs before he dressed. The next hour was spent in his bathroom, the special cream he had brought removed the unwanted hair from his legs, leaving them deliciously smooth. He neatly trimmed his pubic hair and then applied an unscented body lotion, only then did he slide on his newly purchased underwear, struggling slightly to tighten the lacings and fasten the stockings in place. Only once he was fully dressed did he give himself the once over in the mirror, smiling at the sober slate grey suit, and marveling that not a hint of what he was wearing underneath was visible.

That evening he arranged for a car to pick up Gregory from work and deliver him to their favourite restaurant. He sat in a booth and watched as his lover was escorted to their table. Greg smiled as he slipped into the seat opposite Mycroft, reaching over and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Well. What’s the celebration? I’ve not missed an anniversary have I?” he said, a worried expression briefly clouding his face. “No my love, nothing of the sort. I just wanted to take you somewhere where I could show you off, that’s all.” A soppy grin returned to Greg’s face and he visibly relaxed, Mycroft poured him a glass of champagne from the silver bucket next to the table, “To us. To all we know and that we have yet to discover.” He said, a sly smile curving his lips. Gregory lifted his glass in a salute and echoed the toast.

Although the temptation was to rush the meal to get to the dessert, so to speak, Mycroft allowed himself to enjoy a leisurely meal and even indulged in a sweet liqueur, before paying the bill and leading Greg back to the waiting car. They settled into the back seat and Greg placed his hand on Mycroft’s thigh, feeling something he wasn’t used to under the soft wool of his lovers trouser leg. He ran an exploratory finger along the bump of the suspender clip, looked Mycroft in the eye, and raised a questioning eyebrow. Mycroft only glanced at him shyly and turned his head to look out at the passing cityscape.

He heard Greg swallow, and allowed him to continue to stroke his leg as they made their way home. On entering their house Mycroft slipped off his shoes and hung his jacket on the hall stand, Greg leant against the wall unsteadily as he watched with growing interest, as Mycroft began to divest himself of his clothing. When he finally stood before him dressed only in the corset and stockings, his erection standing proud against his belly and marking the pale satin with pre-come, only then did Greg move, a low growl issued from his throat and he rushed at the other man, bending slightly to scoop him up and throw him over his shoulder, before striding up the stairs, into their bedroom, and depositing him roughly onto the bed. Mycroft lay spread eagled on his back panting as Greg tore at his own clothes and then launched himself at his daringly dressed darling.

Between smothering the pale, freckled skin in kisses, licks and bites, he spoke a stream of delectable filth, “You dirty little slut. Dressing up so nicely for me, not letting me know what you were wearing under your stuffy suit. All this pretty, silky stuff just for me. I bet you’ve been hard all day just anticipating my reaction haven’t you? No bloody knickers either, like the filthy little whore you are, wouldn’t want to wait for me to pull them off you would you? You just want easy access, so I can fuck you quickly don’t you? Christ you’re lovely, I’m going to eat you out, I’m going to make you beg for my cock, you greedy little thing. I bet you’re desperate aren’t you? I bet you can’t wait for me to go down on you. Spread those legs whore, keep your eyes on me, I’m going to make you scream.” With that he tilted Mycroft’s pelvis slightly to allow his tongue access to the younger man’s arse, and he set about opening him up with his tongue with gusto. Mycroft threw back his head and yelled out as Greg’s first finger slip in alongside his tongue and brushed against his prostate minutes later. He bit back his cries as Greg methodically and relentlessly opened him up, pausing only to reach into his bedside drawer for the lube which he applied liberally to his cock when he deemed that Mycroft was ready to be fully penetrated. Slinging one leg over his shoulder, he slid home in one smooth movement and then set a punishing pace, pounding into Mycroft like a fucking machine, smearing open mouthed, sloppy kisses on silk and skin. He felt his impending orgasm building and rushing towards him, reaching in-between their bodies he gripped Mycroft’s straining prick and delivered hard, punishing strokes, ripping his climax from him and sending pulses of hot come over them both. As Mycroft clung to him and pulsed around his cock, he felt his balls draw up and an explosive rush of ecstasy tear through his body, delivering his orgasm deep into Mycroft.

Greg was dripping in sweat, his fringe damp and stuck to his forehead. His limbs ached as he carefully pulled out and lowered Mycroft back onto the mattress, and then collapsed next to him. Struggling to get his breath back, he clasped hold of one of Myc’s hands and drew it to his chest, placing it over his heart. “Jesus Myc’. I think you broke me. You clever bastard. How did you work out I had a kink before I knew it myself?” Mycroft smiled, leaned up on one elbow and surveyed the damage. The stains on the corset would require some serious attention, the stockings were in tatters and would be fit for nothing but the bin. He placed a kiss on the damp cheek of his exhausted lover and whispered “I’m a Holmes Greg, we’re famous for our deductions…” before flopping sideways onto the pillows, curling himself into his lover’s side and falling fast asleep.

*

**L is for Lasciviousness**

Greg had been sitting in the Friday night rush hour for exactly 17 minutes longer than his patience would allow. The streets were rammed, nothing was moving. What made it worse was he was on a promise, Mycroft had texted him 45 minutes ago with a photograph taken from above the waist, down the entire length of his legs to his polished brogues. Nothing unusual about this apart from the swelling that was distorting the fabric of his upper left trouser leg and showing very clearly which side he dressed. The message that accompanied the picture said “One hour. Then I start without you.” A taxi in front of him swerved to the left and into the bus lane, Greg swore as he drew up to the lights, they automatically switched to red and his foot hit the brake. At this rate Mycroft would be done, showered, and fast asleep before he got through their front door. On a good night he would make it home in ten minutes from here, he pondered just ditching the car and running, but then made a swift decision as the lights changed from red to green again, yes he would get into trouble, if anyone actually found out, but it would be worth it.

Mycroft was standing next to the bedroom window when he heard the siren and caught sight of the blue lights speeding up their street. The car screeched to a halt in front of their house and he watched as Greg leapt out of the driver’s side and took the front steps two at a time. The front door slammed shut and mere seconds later he felt himself engulfed in two strong arms. Closng his eyes he drank in the scent of the city, reading every frustration in the tension of his lovers stance. “My love,” he murmured, “You are abusing your authority using the blues and twos to get you home so I can seduce you. You are, quite literally, the embodiment of lasciviousness,” and sinking down, he unzipped Greg, pulled out his half hard cock and swallowed him down. Greg groaned and made a mental note to ask what that meant after he had finished receiving an award winning blow job, at the rate Myc’ was going it wouldn’t take long.

As it turned out, Mycroft, as always, had hit the nail quite squarely on the head. Greg was happy to admit that yes, he had been driven by lust.

*

**M is for Murderous**

If it hadn’t been for his brother stepping into the breech there would have been two dead men in the warehouse that night.

Sherlock had raced off after another serial killer, with John in hot pursuit. Greg had followed on their coat-tails, radioing for back up before slipping into the abandoned warehouse only seconds after watching the duo disappear into the same building. He watched as a figure stepped out of the shadows and pulled a gun, the first bullet narrowly missing Sherlock, the second tearing through his own coat sleeve and grazing his skin. “Son of a bitch!” he swore under his breath, diving for cover as he heard another shot ring out. He peered out from behind the crates and spotted a lifeless body sitting in a chair, the amount of blood pooled at its feet lead him to deduce that the poor bastard was already dead.

As he watched, the suspect made a dash for the stairs but John was quicker, he launched himself at the man and knocked him onto his arse, winding him and causing him to drop his weapon. Sherlock appeared from out of the shadows and swiftly had him in handcuffs, probably the set of his own that had gone missing a few weeks earlier. Greg sank down onto the floor, leaning heavily against the wooden crates, as he heard sirens and watched the flashing lights through the glassless windows, the pain in his arm beginning to intensify now that the adrenalin was beginning to abate. Sherlock shouted out that the scene was safe and torches lit up the gloom. John appeared beside him and assessed the damage, “You’ll need cleaning up and a few stiches,” he said as Greg noticed Mycroft materialize in the doorway looking frantically about him.

Then, everything sort of happened at once, Sally, noting that Greg had been injured shouted “Man down. That bastard shot Lestrade.” Dimmock, who was dragging the trussed up culprit towards the door, let out a holler when an enraged Mycroft flew at them in a rage yelling “You dared to harm a hair on his head!” Sherlock rapidly intervened putting himself in-between the shooter and his brother, gripping firmly onto his arms and steering him away sharply. “Come brother, let’s leave the nice officers to do their job. Please calm down Mycroft, you look positively murderous…”

*

**N is for Nerdy**

Mycroft was used to being the cleverest person in the room, but on the occasion of his 48th birthday, when Sherlock had treated both him and Gregory to tickets for a lecture by Stephen Hawking, he had the unnerving experience of being in the company of a true genius. Greg, on the back of pulling an all-nighter, had predictably nodded off about twenty minutes in, but Mycroft sat enraptured.

At the end, Greg was woken by the thunderous applause and people rising from their seats all around him. “Did I miss anything?” he said stretching and yawning widely. “No. Only the most intelligent man in the known universe indulging us with some of his wisdom,” Mycroft chided, putting out his hand to help haul Greg to his feet. “Ah…ok…Well, you can fill me in on the drive home. Aw…just look at you, you’ve gone all nerdy over him…” Greg teased leaning in and pecking his husband on the cheek.

Mycroft blushed and pushed Greg along the row of seats a little more roughly than necessary, “Oh shut up! Nerdy indeed!”

*

**O is for Omnipotent**

On the occasion of John and Sherlock’s wedding day there was a traffic incident in the centre of London and the entire city ground to a halt. All across the network of roads leading to the Pall Mall wedding venue, guests were stranded in taxis and cars and John stood at a window fretting. Greg walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Look mate, you’re marrying Sherlock Holmes, the brother of Mycroft Holmes. Quit worrying.”

Sure enough, ten minutes later, cars started to arrive at in front of the building and their wedding guests spilled out onto the pavement and in through the front doors. John breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Mrs Hudson arrive, and link arms with gloriously hatted Molly as they made their way into the building.

“I take it Mycroft managed to get the roads sorted so everyone could get here?” John asked as Greg pinned a spray of stephanotis to his lapel. “Yeah. He’s omnipotent. He’s not going to let a major traffic incident stop his baby brother marrying the love of his life in front of all their loved ones is he? Now come on. Let’s go show those Holmes boys how well we scrub up…” Greg joked, ruffling John’s hair and pushing him towards the door.

*

**P is for Posh**

If Greg thought that Sherlock was well-to-do, nothing prepared him for his first meeting with his brother.

After a minor dust-up ended with Sherlock cooling his heels in a cell, Greg knocked back a pint of the landlords best at his local. He was on the way to fetch a second pint when he found himself face to face with a tall, bespoke suited, stranger. The man spoke. “Detective Inspector Lestrade. I would appreciate it if you would curtail your carousing for the evening and return with me to Scotland Yard. You are holding a relative of mine in the cells, for no other reason than he fell into a fury after pointing out that your forensic officer was standing in the evidence, quite rightly I might add. He is no pugilist, and I agree, he should, as you so beautifully put it, ‘Keep his fucking fists up, or he’ll get twatted!’ the next time he gets into a fight with an officer of the law. Now, unless you would like me to involve my lawyer, and point out the bruising to my brother’s face, I suggest that we make haste and get him released in to my care pronto.”

Greg put the empty pint down on the bar and watched as the man turned and headed for the exit, leaving Greg no choice but to follow in his deliciously scented wake.

“Lead on posh boy.” Greg said casting an appreciative glance at the beautifully rounded arse as it disappeared into a large black car parked on the double yellows in front of the pub.

*

**Q is for Quarrelsome**

Sunday afternoons at the Holmes family residence can be a little taxing. Greg and John have learned the hard way not to get involved in any board games that may appear after lunch is finished and cleared away. Indeed, they actively encourage their in-laws to take their two sons into the sitting room and act as referees while they wash up and dry the pots.

“Mycroft! You can’t put a hotel on a utility site. Read the rules!” Sherlock shouts.

“I can put a hotel anywhere I bloody well please! As you so rightly point out, I am the British government!”

John and Greg stuff tea towels into their mouths to stop themselves laughing out loud, especially when they hear their mother-in-law raise her voice sternly and announce, “Sherlock! Myc’! Play nicely! Don’t think either of you are too old to go over my knee! You are such quarrelsome boys!”

Neither does it help when they hear the words “Sorry Mummy…” chorused from the brothers mouths moments later.

*

**R is for Resourceful**

When Greg finds that his handcuffs have gone missing yet again, right in the middle of an arrest, he does whatever is needed to get the suspect restrained.

Hauling him towards the waiting van, he notices John and Sherlock leaning against a nearby wall, deep in discussion. As he approaches, Sherlock looks at him, at the man he is pushing along in front of himself, and raises an eyebrow, “Very resourceful Lestrade, that would not have occurred to me.” John glances over and notices the man’s binds, “Even if it did, you don’t wear a tie, so you wouldn’t have one available.”

“Correct John. Though I do wonder how it came so quickly to Graham’s mind…unless…ah yes…please tell me you’re not using Mycroft’s hand rolled silk ties to restrain him in the bedroom Detective Inspector…”

Greg blushed a deep crimson colour and swore under his breath. John, sensing an argument brewing, steered Sherlock in the direction of away whilst hissing in his ear, “If you’d not half-inched his handcuffs to restrain me in the bedroom he wouldn’t have had to use his bloody tie in the first place…”

“Ah…yes…you do have a point there John…”

*

**S is for Secret**

Mycroft is a consummate liar and an expert at keeping confidences.

A senior member of the royal family’s smoking habits.

The location of the safe containing the eighth Harry Potter novel.

The identity of the man who shot the cabbie.

Who the Prime Minister had fired over the poppy/Photoshop debacle.

As for Maggie Thatcher, well the less said about him the better…

The hardest secret he has ever kept though, was the one he carried in his heart for six years before finally spilling it over a pint in a nondescript pub in North London.

“I love you Gregory.”

*

**T is for Tight**

The first time.

The smell of cologne, fresh sweat, shampoo.

Damp skin yielding under his ministrations.

Ragged breaths.

The slick…

…and then finally, finally…

Sliding home…that sweet tight grip.

“Myc’…”

“I know darling…I know…”

*

**U is for Unselfish**

After a long, almost impossible wait, John and Sherlock witness the birth of their child. The surrogate mother, a selfless young woman who offered to pay them back for the help they had given her in ridding her life of an abusive boyfriend, delivered their daughter into John’s waiting arms.

After the clean-up and tears had dried, the uncle’s, who had been pacing the corridor outside, were allowed in to visit their niece. John was sitting in a chair next to the bed, encouraging the exhausted birth mother to eat some toast, Sherlock was holding the tiny bundle, the look of complete adoration on his face causing Mycroft to draw up short and Greg to bump right into him.

Sherlock walked over and handed the sleeping baby to his brother. Her hair was a deep auburn and curled in a halo around her face. “She has your hair Mycroft.” He said smiling softly.

“That’s impossible…” Mycroft stuttered, bringing a finger up to stroke the curls.

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?” interrupted Sherlock, smiling at his brother.

“She’s beautiful Sherlock, perfect,” said Greg leaning in to get a better look, “What are you going to call her?”

“Well, there was only one choice really,” John said casting a glance at the birth mother, who was now drifting off into a well-earned sleep, “After such an unselfish act, what else could we name her but…”

“…Charity…” Mycroft said placing a kiss on his niece’s forehead, “Welcome to the world baby girl.”

*

**V is for Vengeance**

“This is just childish Gregory!”

Mycroft sat at the bottom of their bed, the open bag in his hand, eying the contents.

“You said that if I came to your stuffy works do last weekend you would do whatever I wanted you to this weekend. Put. It. On…”

“Really? This is what you want?”

“Oh yeah. Come on Myc’, time is a wasting.”

Mycroft pulled out the offending article, unzipped the front and stepped into it.

“Put the hood up.”

The hood was put up. Reluctantly.

Mycroft surveyed the damage in their full length mirror. Where his husband had managed to find an adult sized pink bunny onesie, complete with ears and, he reached around, yes, a fluffy tail, he had no idea, but, when he found out, he would have the shop investigated on Health and Safety grounds. Surely this much polyester in one garment warranted a fire risk?

Greg sidled up behind him and pulled one ear until it flopped rakishly over his left eye.

“Ha! Vengeance is mine!” he shouted patting the big pink bunny hard on its tail “Now, come here, onto the bed with you, you know what rabbits are famous for don’t you…"

*

**W is for Warrior**

Mycroft watched the final moments play out from the monitor of his work computer, the CCTV cameras following his husbands every move.

The police were closing in on their target now, surrounding a flat in a low rent area. They had been alerted to the whereabouts of the suspect when a neighbour had witnessed him dragging what looked to be the, much publicised, missing child of the Oscar winning actress, over the threshold.

Mycroft noticed that John and Sherlock were hanging around the edges of the scene, as usual. There was a commotion, shots were fired on both sides, and Mycroft held his breath as he watched Gregory shoulder open the door and disappear inside. Moments later he appeared, carrying a wriggling child and deposited him into the arms of Dr Watson.

Greg stood, hands on hips, firing out orders and pointing towards the building.

He had never, in Mycroft’s opinion, looked more warrior like.

*

**X is for Xenodochial**

He doesn’t intend it, he doesn’t invite it, it just always happens.

The latest incident was when Greg and Mycroft were sitting under a tree, on a blanket, sharing a beautifully packed hamper, Fortnum and Masons finest.

The park was busy, it was a sunny Saturday afternoon after all, but they had managed to find themselves a fairly quiet spot and Mycroft was just feeding his husband a cracker loaded with brie, when a football landed on their blanket and almost knocked over the half bottle of Krug. A small boy appeared, red haired and freckled, with an apologetic older sister by his side. “Can I have my ball back please?” the boy asked, imploring Mycroft with his large green eyes. Greg jumped up and grabbed the ball. “Only if I can join in!” he asked, before enthusiastically hoofing the ball into the open field.

He ran over to a rather harassed looking woman who was struggling to feed a baby while keeping her eye on the two other children, Mycroft watched as his husband exchanged a few words with the woman, who nodded and threw back her head in laughter. The next thing he saw was Greg rounding up a small gang of children and parents, stripping off his jumper to make a goalpost, and then an enthusiastic and rather rowdy game of football being played.

Eventually the game had ended and ice creams had been handed out all round, Greg made his way back to their picnic blanket, sweaty and covered in grass stains. Mycroft had tidied away the food and was stretched out reading an Ian Fleming novel. Greg threw himself down onto the blanket and dropped a kiss on Mycroft’s forehead. Mycroft grimaced, but allowed his stomach to be arranged into comfortable pillow for a damp, silver haired head.

“That was great Myc’,” Greg said smiling.

“Yes dear. Though why you must always be so xenodochial is beyond me?”

“Xeno-what?” Greg said turning his head and frowning up at him.

"Xenodochial. Friendly to strangers, my love.”

*

**Y is for Youthful**

Early morning was when Greg noticed it most. The dawn was just creeping in through a crack in the curtain and illuminating the pillow that Mycroft lay sleeping on. In the half-light, fast asleep, no worries to cause frown lines across his forehead. Nothing to make him chew his lip in frustration. The dark circles vanquished by three full nights in his own bed, Mycroft looked the picture of peacefulness, positively youthful.

*

**Z is for Zealous**

Rough hands gripped his hips and held him in place as his husband filled him again and again. Greg set a punishing pace as he hammered him from behind, each thrust aimed to nearly, but not quite, brush over his prostate.

“Gregory…please…let me come…” Mycroft whined as he felt a hand move to gently cup his leaking cock, not quite hard enough to provide the much needed friction to send him over the edge.

“Not until you’ve learned your lesson Myc’…” Greg panted out between thrusts. “Don’t you ever let that bastard touch you again like that…”

“But Greg’, he’s a prince, what was I supposed to do?”

“You tell him, you’re mine! Whose are you Myc’?”

“Oh God…Yours Greg…all yours…” Mycroft cried out as Greg gripped him tightly in his hand and at last delivered a series of well-aimed thrusts over that tiny bundle of nerves to send his husband spiraling into ecstasy. He buried himself deep one last time and pumped out his orgasm into Mycroft’s silky passage.

They collapsed on the bed and lay there until Greg’s cock softened and he slipped out, his come leaking from Mycroft’s abused hole and making a damp patch on the sheets.

“You were rather zealous tonight, my love…” Mycroft pointed out, squirming, as he turned over to snuggle into his husband’s arms, “Didn’t even take the time to put on a condom…”

“I’d have thought the word was jealous, my love…” Greg said pulling his lover closer and sucking a love bite onto his neck, just high enough so it would be visible when Mycroft returned to the palace the following morning.

**The End**


End file.
